


the prick of a pretty, perfect and poisonous pearl

by pomegarnet



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Sex, Manipulation, Post "The Ball", Relationship Study, Seduction, Unhealthy Relationships 101, unhealthy relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-23
Updated: 2016-06-23
Packaged: 2018-07-16 18:34:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7279432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pomegarnet/pseuds/pomegarnet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>he tells her to hold him.</p>
<p>she clings to him</p>
            </blockquote>





	the prick of a pretty, perfect and poisonous pearl

**Author's Note:**

> hey you guys my name is dina and this is unhealthy relationships 101!

There’s a hollow void aching Natasha as she announces “I’d do anything for you.”, and there's something sacrificial about it -- of _course_ it will be sacrificial, she’s giving herself up to the man in front of her with the intelligent eyes and the insatiable hands and the intoxicating voice that pours out deals and promises and bets like liquor straight from a bottle and his gorgeous face and the cheekbones and the electric hair and.

She really could not help loving him.

Anatole picks her up by the waist and cradles her in his strong arms, and Natasha can feel the hard calluses of his hands; a writer’s hands, for how else could he have spoken his lovesick and almost lustful words to her; how else could he have made her fall in love with him.

Anatole is carrying Natasha to _somewhere_ in the house and--

“How lovely!” slurs a heavily drunk Countess Hélène Kuragin Bezukhova, her neck bare from her double string of pearls she had lent to Natasha, “You two look so,” she rubs her gloved thumb, index and middle finger together, searching through her vocabulary for the right word, her eyebrows raising and eyes widening as a smirk presents itself on her expressive face, “ _Charming_ together. A match made from heaven, if you ask me!” She downs the rest of her drink, “Have fun, you two. How lucky you both are to have such attractive lovers!” She calls out to a servant, “Pour me another!”

Anatole briefly let's Natasha down onto her feet before picking her up by her knees, bridal carrying her down the corridor and past his sister and her husband’s bedroom into a vacant sleeping chamber with a bed in the room’s center. Anatole walked over and perched Natasha on the bed.

“Stay right there, my sweet.” He murmurs in her ear, dragging one of his hands down her plump arms, being a wave of goosebumps and shivers with it. He trails back to the door and locks it, double checking the keys twice before he turns his back to it, his gaze on Natasha’s neck, her shoulders, her arms, her wrists and her fingers.

Anatole slowly and painfully edges over to Natasha, his eyes piercing at her as if he were a wild predator and she was his hunted prey. He grabs her right hand and holds it before clawing off her glove and kissing the palm of her hand, her soft and sweet knuckles, the tips of her long fingernails before he sucks on one of her fingers. She let’s out a lovely little moan at that, to which his response is to push her down further down of the spare bed.

He takes another one of her fingers into her mouth, and she's inhaling and exhaling heavily, her breathing uneven and her face is extremely flushed when she asks him, “Would you like,” and she chokes and stutters on her words, her face growing a brighter shade of scarlet, she gulps and continues, “For me to swirl my fingers around?” And the question fills Anatole’s ears and he wraps his tongue around those gorgeous and nimble fingers and--

“ _Stop_!" And to Anatole, Natasha is speaking, but to Natasha, she is shrieking.

Anatole pulls her hand out of his mouth and grasps her by the hips, stabbing his fingertips into her love handles, and pulls her onto his lap. He rests his nose into the crook of her neck and pecks her collarbone, “What’s wrong, love?” He asks, unfazed and unconcerned.

Natasha’s face heats up once again at the peck on her collarbone and his words and she thinks ’ _He’s so loving!’_

Natasha holds onto his broad shoulders as if they were a lifeline, a last hope of survival. She wraps her legs around his waist and announces, “I do not wish to do that.”

Anatole rubs a hand in between her thick thighs. “I have an idea.” He claims, curling away from Natasha and pushing her up against the bed frame.

He puts his head between her thighs, and Natasha is lost. She wants to say no, scream no, shriek no, repeat it over and over until her voice decimates into oblivion. She digs the heel of her lithe foot into his back and shoulder blades repeatedly as he bites around her thighs. She grabs his hair and pulls him off of her, putting her arms around her knees and squeezing; looking away from his gorgeous and confused eyes like a frightened child awaiting punishment.

“What is the matter, --” Anatole starts, but is interrupted

“Don’t speak to me like that!” Natasha screeches miserably, in a pitifully pathetic manner.

“Natasha…” he continues

Natasha pulls her knees closer to her chest, eyeing the curve of them. She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes, and she feels as if this is what meeting God is like, and asking for scraps and crumbs of forgiveness for the infinite numbers of sins adorning your back.

She exhales her breath, turning her body to face Anatole, releasing her knees from their cage known as her arms. She looks at him, and observes how unaffected he looks at her outbreak.  _’Does he not care?’_ , is the first thought appearing into her mind, but she is quick to correct herself, ' _Nonsense, Natalya! Do not think like that! He loves you, he’s just staying strong to comfort you and your pathetic, and oversensitive outbreak, you stupid child!’_ she reprimands herself.

Anatole inches closer to Natasha, gathering her once again in his lap. His strong hands are crawling and drawing little, sweet lines on the small of her back, and Natasha finds that absolutely precious and falls into even deeper and hazier intoxicating love with the bold man whose lap she is decorating.

Anatole’s tone is calm, almost a dead-like monotone when he says, “Natasha.”

Natasha freezes in his arms at the sound of her name and his intoxicating and wonderful and lovely and vivacious voice together. She looks down at him, (Which is utterly confusing to Natasha, as she feels the immediate need to have Anatole look down at her.) and gazes straight into those eyes, and she composes a theory that that is what first started her falling in love with him, as it was the first thing that stood out to her when they first crosses paths and their souls combined at the opera. Light blue goes excellent with dim lighting.

Natasha is once again lost and hypnotized in the mystique and mystery of a certain Anatole Kuragin, but she finds herself being pulled out of her trance by the man himself, when he says her name again, “Natasha.”

Natasha doesn't enjoy hearing her name from him, it reminds her of Sonya and her family and-- it feels so _wrong_ because she knows that the would never approve of their love affair.

“Do not call me Natasha.” She states.

He chuckles into the pudge of her arm at that, “What would you like for me to call you, dear? Natalya?”

She shakes her head rampantly at that. “Natalie.” She states, “No one ever calls me Natalie.”

Anatole moves his head away from her arm and smiles up at her. “My very own name for you? How pleasant.”

She nods at that. Anatole pulls her up and off his lap and gets on his knees, grasping her bare foot and kissing it. “My Natalie.”

And her face flushes immensely at the sound of that; and she feels even more hunted and sought after at the sound of that.

She nods excessively in agreement. “Yes! Your Natalie.”

Anatole get up and off of his knees to kiss his Natalie, her plump lips, the swell of her cheeks, the bridge of her nose, her eyebrows and her lovely and enchanting eyes.

She giggles at his pecks surrounding her face, as if it were a shield. “What time is it?” She asks.

“Almost midnight.” He informs her, and he feels his Natalie’s expression swiftly morph from happiness and love and fear into simply just fear.

Natasha attempts to push off of Anatole, but he kisses at her neck for one last time, biting and licking at the soft skin, before sucking a hickey onto it.

Natasha pulls away from him, fierceness and anger painting her features. “Do not _ever_  do that to me!” She scolds, “I could get in trouble for that!”

Anatole hates being spoken to in _that_ tone. “Natasha.” He says the name with a stern tone, and he watches as his Natalie curls up at his words and his tone, a grimace appearing on her gorgeous face.

There’s an aching silence between the two, before Natasha states a fact;

“You are frightening me.”

Anatole knows that he is, he _intended_ to do that.

Natasha stands up, straightening up the feather crowning her hair, placing fallen hair strands back into position. She slips her shoes back onto her nimble feet, and she returns her gloves onto her hands, placing them around her stomach. She walks over to the door and unlocks it, stating, “I must take my leave.” before leaving the room. Anatole chases after her.

Natasha scurries down the corridor, hoping to get Anatole’s piercing gaze on the small of her back lost when she re-enters the ballroom.

She spins around the dancers and the drunk lovers before stopping at the exit. Natasha finds herself unable to leave, not without--

“Natalie!”

\-- _him!_

Anatole runs up behind her, interlocks his strong arms around the curve of her waist. “Where are you going.”

“My godmother will lead a witch hunt for my head if I am found here for another minute! Please, let me leave!”

“Not yet.” He says. Natasha turns in his arms, and one of his hands slithers up her back, and unties Hélène’s double string of pearls around her neck.

“Anatole.”

“Natalie.”

She grasps his wrists. “Will this be the last time we meet?” She asks in a desperate and panicked haze, “I do not believe that I am able to live without you, Anatole! Every moment we are apart, I feel as if I am being stabbed repeatedly all over my body. It is pure torture and suffering when I am not with you, it leaves me utterly helpless and sensitive. I _need_ you!” She states, the words pouring out of the core of Natasha’s being.

Anatole is as calm as ever when he informs his Natalie of something, “I have a plan, I’ll write you a letter about it, and we will be together, love.”

Natasha cups his face in her hands, and kisses his lips before walking backwards towards the exit and running out.

That was the last time they ever saw one another.

**Author's Note:**

> ,,,,,yeah,,
> 
> im on tumblr @garnetcomets
> 
> come talk to me about great comet.


End file.
